


My Light

by walierion



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy, Rating May Change, Romance, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6569857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walierion/pseuds/walierion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I had sworn to myself to never have any children. I didn't want them to go through the same struggles as Prim and I had had to go through, and although I was now a victor there was no guarantee that hunger would stay away." After the 74th Hunger Games, Katniss finds herself pregnant. What she decides to do will change her life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thanks for taking a look at my work! This is my first ever published fanfiction, so constructive critisism is much appreciated. I hope you like the story! "My Light" is also at fanfiction.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11889493/1/My-Light

My Light

The light that seeps through the window above our bed is cold and uninviting. Not like the yellow and orange streaks of a warm sunrise that always seem to bring a smile to Peeta’s face, which lately has transferred to me and made me unable to not mimic his expression. Unfortunately those days seem to be long gone and now, as we are in the middle of February, all I can seem to think about is the lack of light. That, and the life now growing within me.  
  
Peeta and I found out a couple of months ago, after I had been throwing up violently for a duration of days. I still remember the terrible taste and the acid burning in my throat. Not that I’d never thrown up before, just this time it was so... different. The nausea seemed to return almost instantly after my date with the nearest place to dispose of the content of my stomach, but then, after a little while it would seem to just vanish. It had always been over as quickly as it had started.  
And this went on for days on end until Peeta, after patiently keeping my hair out of my face, finally voiced his concern, a concern that had been growing in the back of my own mind as well, a concern that I hadn’t allowed myself to think about in fear of the consequences for myself, for my already fragile mind and general stability.  
”Katniss, what if you’re pregnant?”  
When he said it I froze. How could he afford to think like that? Was it really a plausible probability after just one time? My menstrual cycle was unpredictable at best, and especially after the games it had been all over the place, sometimes skipping two or three months or having me bleed for two weeks straight. I tried to think back, but I couldn’t seem to remember having it for a long time actually.  
The vomit, the missing periods, the general moodiness... I felt a coldness spreading from my chest to my stomach and I had to force myself not to start hyperventilating.  
But despite all the proof, I quickly dismissed Peeta.  
”No, that’s completely impossible” I mumbled, barely audible, but of course he caught it. As an answer, he was quiet a long time.  
”Well, if you think about it, it actually is...” he never got to finish his sentence.  
” I am not pregnant,” I hissed as I got myself away from the toilet where I had spent the last 30 minutes.  
It couldn’t be, it really couldn’t. Our first and only time had been extremely clumsy and awkward and there was no way a child could have been conceived from that. Or was there? God dammit. No, nothing was carved in stone. None of us were sure; maybe some stomach bug had just affected me the last couple weeks? Wishful thinking.  
My thoughts were racing and my stress level was climbing higher for every second that passed. I wanted to block out the world, grab my bow and run out in the woods, go hunting and feel the cold winter air on my feverish flesh.  
I had sworn to myself to never have any children. I didn’t want them to go through the same struggles as Prim and I had had to go through, and although I was now a victor there was no guarantee that hunger would stay away. But hunger was only one thing. There war also the Hunger Games. That had always been my main reason for not wanting to bring any children into this world. There would always be the chance of them getting reaped, and if that happened, I would never be able to forgive myself. But now that Peeta and I had both won, and that in the same games, if we, the infamous star-crossed lovers from district 12, were to have a child together, that would mean giving said child a one-way ticket to certain death. Children of victors always ended up on the stage in front of their district’s justice building with their names typed on the “randomly” picked paper slip. And having your name on that paper was the same as having it inscribed on a gravestone. The reapings were always rigged, and so were the games. Apparently a bit of ’family drama’ was always great entertainment for the twisted people of the Capitol. And that was all The Hunger Games were to them: entertainment.  
My stomach did an uncomfortable turn at merely the thought of giving my own child, a little piece of Peeta and me in one body of flesh and blood, a living, breathing human being, up to the Capitol and to the cruel fate of being slaughtered on national, live television.

The feeling of Peeta’s strong hands on my shoulders brought me out of my thoughts. Tears I had tried so hard to hold back were now traveling down my cheeks and the sensation of false security that Peeta’s touch always gave me was making everything worse.  
” Hey...Katniss, nothing is confirmed yet, this might just be some stupid scare that we’re working ourselves up about for no reason” he said, but I could hear a hint of desperation and uncertainty in his usually so steady voice, and that, the thought of not even Peeta being sure or able to calm me down, broke me completely.  
Not bothering to control the tears any more, I turned around, now facing him, and walked straight into his embrace. His strong arms wrapped around me instantly and with my shivering frame pressed against his warm body, I sobbed against his chest.  
”It’s going to be okay” Peeta hummed in a low, soothing voice against my ear while stroking my back gently. His breath made me suddenly aware of how close we were and as by instinct I almost pulled away, but got a hold of myself in the last second. If I were actually pregnant, then I would probably have to spend the rest of my life with Peeta and I’d have to become comfortable with having him inside my personal space. Not that the Capitol would have any different plans for us, but now with this life changing discovery everything seemed so much more... real. This was actually happening to us. Maybe President Snow would have us get married before the legal age just because of this baby? Surprisingly, the thought of spending the rest of my days with Peeta didn’t seem so daunting as I thought it would seem, but I just wish that it had been on our own accord, not forced on us by the Capitol. As Haymich once had told me: Peeta was worth ten times the likes of me, and I knew that was true. Sweet, caring and loving Peeta stuck with a cold-hearted murderer like me just because I had held out those berries in the arena.  
I dug my face into the fabric of his shirt and tightened my grip around his neck as waves of sobs wrecked through my body. I had to use my last ounce of willpower to keep myself from screaming my head off and potentially scare the life out of Prim and my mother downstairs.  
Oh God, Prim and mom.  
”What are we going to tell them?” I forced out between sobs, my heart racing at the thought of possible consequences.  
”Tell whom?” Peeta gently whispered into my hair.  
”Prim and mom! If I’m... pregnant.” I found it hard to say the word out loud, ”then how the hell are they going to react?”  
Again his silence filled the room, only interrupted by my now less powerful and more controlled crying. His heartbeat was steady beneath my hand. I could hear his sharp intake of breath and knew that he was about to say something, but before he even got the chance there was a knock on the door and it opened to my mother standing outside in the hallway. I could see her eyes shift between the two of us as I clung to Peeta with all my strength, but if she was embarrassed or confused, she hid it well.  
”Is everything alright in here?” she asked. ”I thought I heard you crying, Katniss, so I just wanted to check on you.”  
”Mrs. Everdeen, I didn’t get to say hello to you when I arrived, how lovely to see you!” Peeta released me and went to shake her hand. He smiled at her and his sudden act of polite friendliness must have taken her by surprise, because her eyes softened a little bit.  
”I’m glad to see you too, Peeta. Now, do any of you want to tell me what’s going on?”  
A couple of days after I came home from the Capitol and the games, she had apologized to me. For being a bad mother, neglecting us, and for letting us starve. I had told her that it was alright, that I understood why she had let herself become a ghost of herself, although I really didn’t, and after that she had tried her hardest to compensate for all the lost years and really tried to become a mother again. I accepted her acts of kindness- letting her run baths for me, braid my hair or make me cups of tea. And now that she was standing in the doorway in front of me, I could see a motherly worry in her eyes that I hadn’t seen since before my father’s death. A look that showed that she actually cared for my well-being.  
What were we going to tell her? If this pregnancy were indeed a fact, then she would get to know about it sooner or later. Maybe she had already connected the dots, being a healer and all, and with my nausea and shifting mood the last weeks it would be easy for someone as skilled as her to see that something was going on. She was in fact the closest you could get to a proper midwife in all of district 12 without having to pay a year’s earning for the services provided. I had seen her deliver countless children of women in 12 in our living room, and if someone would be able to help me, it would be her. It was then that I decided to, just for once, rely on her for something important. I wanted her to be my mother, my protector of sorts, and I wanted her to look after me, to help me through.  
”Mom, I...”  
I tried my best to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over, and it was odd hearing my voice this vulnerable, but for now I allowed myself to be the scared child I actually was, the sixteen-year-old girl who had been forced to grow up too fast.  
I tried to collect my thoughts and to form a coherent sentence between the stupid sniffles I couldn’t control, and I was able to get out something almost understandable:  
”You know I have been sick the last weeks and behaving oddly and doing weird things and…” I kept babbling, struggling to figure out how to say it. I wish I were as good with words as Peeta was, being able to use my silver tongue to get out of uncomfortable situations. Situations like this one, for instance. My mother must have sensed my building panic, because she gripped me by my shoulders and held me tightly in place, maybe afraid I would fly out of the room, into the woods, never to return.  
” Katniss, are you pregnant?” Her tone was calm and collected, without the anger or disappointment I was afraid of hearing. Of course she had understood everything. Maybe she had even come to the conclusion long before Peeta and I and had even begun thinking of the possibility of such a thing.  
Relieved I hadn’t needed to say it out loud, I just nodded weakly, letting tears run down my face once again. I didn’t like showing this much emotion to anyone and I despised my weakness.  
To my surprise my mother pulled me in for a hug for the first time in years. It felt strange being this close to her. Unfamiliar. She didn’t smell the same as when I was little and my father was still alive. Back then her scent consisted of coal dust, like almost everyone in twelve, but there were also hints of honey and faint vanilla, wherever that came from. Now the coal dust had been replaced by a fresh soap, and the honey was gone, but there was still something comforting about it all. She felt fragile underneath my embrace, almost like a twig about to break, despite having access to enough food for three lifetimes, and I was almost afraid to tighten my hold of her.  
”We’re not certain yet, she hasn’t taken a test or anything,” I could hear Peeta say from behind me.  
”We’ll figure this out, dear” My mother mumbled into my hair. ”I’ll get hold of a test somewhere so we can get his cleared up.”  
”Sounds good,” Peeta answered. Was his voice shaking?  
”Aren’t you mad?” I whispered to my mother. She took her time before she answered me.  
” I’m not angry, Katniss, but I am worried. Have you two thought about what a pregnancy will bring? What about the future of the child?”  
I knew she was talking about the reapings and this baby’s enormous chance of becoming the Capitol’s new puppet along with its parents. I was glad she didn’t say it out loud though; hearing her express her worries might have become too much for me.  
“ I don’t know what we are going to do,” I muttered, eyes fixed on the floor. At least we would have twelve years before we needed to start worrying about the reapings, but until then we would have to deal with the cameras and interviews and the lunatics from the Capitol, crazy after a piece of us, the victors and star-crossed lover from District 12.  
“ Nobody can know,” I said, stubbornness obvious in my voice, as I released myself from my mother’s arms.  
“ Not the district or the Hob, least of all the Capitol, or God forbid, President Snow,” I shuddered when I said his name. “Not even Gale.”  
I don’t know how keeping my pregnancy a secret would benefit the baby or Peeta and myself, but my mother had her eyes on me and I could feel Peeta’s from behind. The room was silent. After a while my mother, although with a weak voice, spoke up:  
“ You cannot keep this hidden forever, Katniss. You’ll grow and change in more ways than you can imagine, and a secret child of two victors won’t go unnoticed very long.”  
“ She’s right, Katniss,” Peeta chimed in. “ If you don’t want to tell anyone we’ll of course support you, but we need to think about this more thoroughly.”  
They were both right, of course, but I was still scared of what the reveal of my pregnancy would lead to.  
“ I don’t even know how far along I am! It will remain a secret as long as possible, at least if I have my say. And that’s it.”  
“Of course you have a say, Katniss. This is your call,” my mother agreed. Then she smiled, “I’ll get you that test.” And she exited my bedroom and Peeta and I were left alone.  
*** *** ***  
The cold and grey light of early morning is replaced with the warm glow from the tabletop lamp on Peeta’s side when he wakes up besides me. His blond hair is everywhere and he has dark circles under his eyes, but he still looks so good I have to smile at his confused face.  
“Morning,” I mumble and shuffle closer to him under the comforter. He instantly wraps his arms around me. “Are you okay?” he croaks.  
The pregnancy hormones, or so I tell myself, have made me more affectionate towards others, Peeta especially. I never really liked physical touch of the sappy sort, but as my pregnancy progresses, the more I want him close to me. I have a hard time letting him go in the mornings when he leaves for the bakery, but he makes it up to me by bringing freshly baked cheese buns back. My displays of affection seem to constantly surprise Peeta, which under normal circumstances might have hurt my feelings, but I’m usually too far-gone in his embraces to worry much about it.  
“I’m good,” I say as I sneak myself to a kiss he sweetly returns. “Did you sleep well?”  
I already know the answer, but I keep hoping it will be different the next time I ask, but that never happens.  
“Not really,” he says, his voice tired, “You know, the same old. But you seemed strangely calm tonight,” The way he says it makes it sound like a question.  
“I don’t think I had any nightmares for a change, or at least my dreams were less vivid tonight,” I reply. I can’t really remember what I dreamt, which might imply they weren’t that interesting.  
“ That’s great, Katniss. It’s very important that you get enough good sleep,”  
“ The same goes for you, Peeta, you know that. If you want to wake me up during the night, then please do so. I don’t think any of us want to be alone after a nightmare.”  
He nods and gives my cheek a quick caress, the small touch sending shivers down my spine. Then he pushes the covers away and I feel the dip in the bed as he gets up to face the day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thanks again for reading my story. I won't be able to update for a while, as I'll be on a school trip abroad, but I'll try to update as soon as I have a chance.

I stay in bed a while longer. Despite not having a nightmare, I still feel exhausted. This is my new normal now. I have zero energy to hunt or visit town or do anything practical, which in it self isn’t really a problem now. We have enough money from our winnings after the Games, to feed every family in the district for at least a year, so hunting isn’t necessary, but I want to spend as much time in the woods around Twelve as possible before I get too big. As I am around four months along I should be starting to show a little, but my stomach is barely poking past the top of my pants. This both relieves and worries me at the same time. I tell myself that my slim frame is the reason, and my mother agrees. I for some reason never managed to gain back all the weight I lost during the Games either, so that might also be a factor causing my non-existing bump.   
I moan as I roll myself out of the warm bed and feel the chill air against my skin. The cold wooden floor creaks as I move across it to open the wardrobe and pick out an outfit. I get dressed in a thick woolen sweater that reaches me to just above my knees, and grey tights. Comfort is all that matters. I developed a strong aversion to styling and fashion during my days in the Capitol and now I avoid it like fire. How ironic isn’t it that my “special talent” is supposedly being an aspiring stylist? The Capitol always wants talented victors, and if you’re without any you have to make something up. Peeta creates the most wonderful landscapes and portraits with a brush upon canvas, which the Capitol is crazy about. If he ever wanted to sell any of them he would make a big heap of money. I, however, lack any sort of what talent is in the eyes of the Capitol. I would put my unmatched skills in archery on the list, but I wasn’t allowed. Apparently you cannot shoot every brightly colored person in the audience. It was Cinna who suggested styling as my talent. I agreed because he would do all my work.

To my surprise I find Haymitch downstairs in our kitchen. He sits by the table drinking what I presume is tea. I don’t think that liquor he likes would be drinkable warm. Not that it’s drinkable cold either. He looks his usual self; greasy hair, bags under watery eyes and worn clothes topped with that annoying smirk of his. I know he enjoys my surprise of seeing him here. Although we’re now neighbors I rarely see him out of the house, not to mention in our kitchen. Something has to be going on and suddenly the realization hits me like a smack in the face.  
“Good morning, sunshine” he says as I descend the stairs. I give him my usual cool look of greeting while trying to hide the nervousness that is building up inside me, threatening to spill over at any moment. I feel nauseous and I don’t think it’s the morning sickness I’ve been dealing with for the past few months. Not this time.   
“Today is the big day, eh?” he says nonchalantly. I barely nod. Haymitch knows me too well. I can see him reading me as if I were an open book on the table in front of him. I know he sees right past my crumbling exterior, straight into my core where that crushing nervousness clenches tightly around my pounding heart, and I know that he knows.   
“Nothing to be nervous about, sweetheart,” the voice he uses when he says this, tells me I have every reason in the world to be nervous. Today is the day of the pre-Games special, a series of live-aired TV interviews of last year’s victors. How could I forget? We were told many months ago! Then I had found out about the pregnancy and every other thought and concern had just evaporated.  
“When will the prep team be here?” I try to keep my voice as calm as possible, but I sound terrified. Great.  
“Effie will be here in around half an hour. I guess the team will arrive with her.”  
“Why are you here, Haymitch?”   
“I’m your mentor, what do you think?” He gives me the obvious answer. I know it isn’t the whole truth. He doesn’t have to be here, as this doesn’t really concern him at all. Peeta and I, well, mainly Peeta, can manage one interview without Haymitch looking us over the shoulder, but for some reason our mentor is still here and it looks like he’s staying. Deep down I know that Haymitch cares for us. He would never admit it, sober nor drunk, but the fact that he’s here when he doesn’t absolutely need to be shows that he has a bit of a soft spot for us. Maybe that is because we are his only tributes to still be alive. I am glad he’s here, though. Annoying and rude as he might be I still get a faint sense of comfort knowing that our mentor will be behind the scenes.   
Searching for something to do, I harshly start rummaging through a cupboard looking for a teacup. I find a fitting one, put the kettle on the stove and find the bottle of now dried mint leaves I occasionally come across on my hunting trips. They make for a good brew on a cold evening and it was always my go-to when my family was out of food.  
The warm liquid calms me. Running down my throat it leaves a comfortable heat behind, a heat I can focus on trying to pry my mind away from the coming interviews. I notice that Peeta is unusually quiet this morning. He doesn’t make any attempts of lightening the mood around our table like he normally would; in fact his entire presence seems to be far away, as if he is completely lost in his own thoughts.  
“Are you alright?” I ask. I don’t get an immediate answer, but after some time he nods and looks up at me.  
“Just trying to figure out what we are going to say during our interview.” This takes me a little aback. I have never seen Peeta doubtful or nervous before an interview. What is so special about this one? I mean, if Peeta of all people, is nervous, then I really have a good reason to be as well. I can feel my breathing getting heavier. There is not enough air… I can’t breathe…  
“Boy, your silver tongue never fails you, so you can stop moping. Just be calm and remain that way. For some reason Panem loves you both so you can’t really say anything wrong.” Haymitch interrupts my destructive train of thoughts. “Within reasonable boundaries of course.” He quickly adds.  
“I hope you’re right,” Peeta says. His voice is sullen, but I sense a slightly lighter mood around the table. My tea is getting cold so I down the rest of it in a single swig and not ten seconds later I know that that was a terrible idea. The nausea that suddenly comes over me is so intense that I barely have enough time to get up from my chair and jump to the kitchen sink, the closest place to rid myself of my meek breakfast. While I’m bent over the sink retching my guts out, I feel my hair being removed from my face and held it in a ponytail while a pair of strong hands are stroking my back soothingly. I know the hands belong to Peeta and I’m ever grateful that he is there. The ordeal doesn’t last very long, but I’m heaving after air when it’s over.  
“Are you okay?” Peeta asks. Concern is carved into his young face. I nod and turn to flush the foul taste out of my mouth with water from the spring. When I’m done he releases my hair and stokes me across the forehead. It’s a simple gesture, but so full of love.   
“Katniss, tell me if you need something. Anything,” he says. A sad smile weakly stretches across his features and he moves in to hug me. “I am so sorry for this,” he whispers to my ear while his hand strokes the back of my head as he holds me. “I really, truly am.” I know he is talking about the pregnancy. He thinks this is all his fault and I know it keeps him up at night. The thought makes me want to cry. I don't want him to feel guilty of anything I know he wants so badly. This isn’t his fault at all.  
There is a tapping behind us. Peeta softens his hold of me and I peek over his shoulder to see what is causing the sound. Haymitch is still sitting at the table; glass in hand, tapping it against the wood to get our attention. To be completely honest, I had forgotten he was there and now our mentor is regarding Peeta and I with narrow eyes and a stern expression. His glance travels between us and I can sense his rising suspicion.  
“What is going on?” he asks. His voice is as cold as the grave and void of emotion. I know that his question is a rhetorical one. Haymitch knows exactly what is going on. Why didn’t I tell him earlier? He is our mentor, which means he is supposed to know every detail about us and have an overview of the situation at all times, even when we are not in the Games. That is the way it has become with the three of us. Maybe he already knows about this baby. I have seen the way he has been looking at me the few times I have seen him outside and it has not just been the regular harsh looks; there has been something else mixed in there, something I can’t pinpoint. Disapproval? Maybe even sadness? Haymitch knows me too well by now. Even though I’m not showing, it will be impossible to keep the truth hidden from him much longer.  
“If you two are keeping me in the dark about what I think this is, then I swear I will cut you both,” Haymitch’s voice is like one of the mountain lions in the woods around the district, the low growl it emits as it sneaks closer to its prey. The sound of it frightens me. I never thought I’d be as afraid of the drunken sack that is Haymitch as I am now.  
“I’m sorry…” I whisper. I don’t know if he can even hear me. For some reason I’m completely unable to raise my voice higher than a pitiful squeak. Haymitch is about to answer, to flay me alive with his words, when there is a sharp knock on the door. Silence fills our kitchen. All three of us turn our heads to the sudden noise, awaiting the next knock, but it doesn’t come. Instead it opens, allowing at least ten people to tumble into the hallway. Feathers, glitter and sharp colors fill the space and I know our prep teams have arrived just in time to rescue me from Haymitch’s wrath.   
“Darlings!” A sharp, singing voice cuts through the uproar in our hallway and Effie Trinket, our escort from the Games, makes her way through the mass of people and comes towards us with wide open arms and a pearly white smile. She has completely changed since list time I saw her. Now, instead of her pink outfit and hair, she is wearing a midnight blue tulle dress, knee length with white jewels everywhere. With the matching high heels she looks like some sort of blue starry cloud floating through the kitchen.  
“How wonderful to finally see you again!” she squeals and embraces Peeta, who is closest to her. “Good to see you too, Effie,” he replies as he struggles for breath. “You look so handsome, my dear boy,” she pats his cheek and moves on to Haymitch, whom she courteously nods her head to.   
“You look a lot better Haymitch,” she says. “I’m glad to see that you have stayed away from that terrible liquor of yours.” Haymitch just scoffs. I don’t know why Effie thinks he has stayed away from drinks, because that couldn’t be further from reality. After we returned from the Games and moved to Victor’s Village, Haymitch had five crates of various alcoholic beverages delivered to his house. That was the last time we saw him for a couple of months. When he came out of his house at last, he had lost several pounds and looked worse than ever. He looks healthier now, but he never really recovered. Just like I haven’t managed to gain back all my weight after the Games, Haymitch never got rid of those crates.  
“And look at you, Katniss!” Effie turns her attention to me and gives me an affectionate hug. “You’re glowing!”   
“Might be a few reasons for that,” Haymitch grumbles from behind me. I feel a burning cold start in the tips of my fingers and toes and spreading through my body. I can’t help but shiver. He definitely knows.   
“Stop it, Haymitch,” Peeta says. I can sense a serious warning in his voice and it seems Haymitch can too, because he shuts up. “We’ll talk later,” he says and then Haymitch disappears out of the room. Effie, oblivious to the ongoing conflict, yells at the prep teams, whom are still waiting in the hallway, to take two of the three bathrooms in the house to use as makeup studios and dressing rooms. The cloud of people floats up the stairs and I think I can hear Flavius yelling something about his hair being too tall to fit the landing.   
“Are you ready for the camera, darlings? The Capitol misses you very much! I can hardly go for a walk without people asking about you two!” Effie smiles, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. Is this supposed to calm me?   
“And what do you tell them?” Peeta asks.  
“I tell them that you are doing great, because you are, right?” The way she says it makes it a statement, not a question. Sometimes I wish I could live in a fantasy world like hers, where everything is pink and wonderful, but then I remember how naïve she is, how naïve and gullible every person in the Capitol is, and that wish quickly evaporates, replaced with a disdain for every person who contributes to the Games. Effie included. Maybe she doesn’t know what she is doing, maybe she’s not aware of it, but I wish she could see our night terrors, our panic attacks, and Peeta’s paintings of the horrors of the Games. I wish she could visit every single grave of the children whom were victims of the atrocities committed by our government. I wish she knew.   
“You are of course going to give us all the details in tonight’s interview, right?” she asks.  
“We’ll see,” Peeta answers. He wears a smile of secrecy. He must have something planned, which makes me a little bit thrilled, but also scared to death.  
“I’m just so excited!” Effie exclaims. “But now I think your prep teams are waiting for you upstairs,” And then she ushers us from the table and up the staircase.   
“Katniss, you are on the right, Peeta you have the left,” she says and leaves us on the landing to go supervise the camera setup. Peeta turns around and looks at me.  
“How come we are never prepped together?” I smile at his question.   
“I don’t know, maybe it’s not enough space for both of us?” I go in to hug him and he wraps his arms around me instantly. “What are we going to do about Haymitch?” I whisper into his chest. He is quiet a long time and I know I’m not the only one who has been thinking about this. His heartbeat is steady and I position my ear against his body to get the best sound.  
“I guess we have to tell him some time in the near future,” Peeta answers.   
“I think he already knows,” I remark.   
“I know he does, but I think he wants to hear us say it,” he returns. “Just to torture us a little bit more.” He bends down and kisses my nose. “I’ll see you after prep, Katniss.” He loosens his grip on me, but I get in a kiss on his lips before he goes. “Have fun in there,” I say. He smiles and walks across the hallway towards his bathroom. I turn around and open the door to mine.


	3. Chapter 3

“Katniss!” several voices shriek as I enter. The entire bathroom is shrouded in a thick pinkish mist, which makes it hard to see the people crowding around me clearly, but I can hear their voices and see the shapes of them if I squint me eyes almost closed.  
“How lovely to finally see you again,” Venia barely touches both my cheeks with a kiss before she leads me towards the bathtub. “Cinna instructed us to take you back to beauty base zero, so we better get started right away!” They undress me in a hurry, which as usual leaves no time for modesty. This catches me a bit off guard this time, though, and out of nowhere I’m taken by a sudden panic. What if they notice anything different about my body? Just because I can’t see anything out of the ordinary doesn’t mean they can’t, and the last thing I want now is an overload of prying questions from my prep team. Not that they would scold me or anything like that - they would probably be overjoyed like most Capitol people, but if they found out, it would be only a question of time before the whole of Panem knew as well. The mere thought makes me shudder involuntarily. However, my prep team seems more concerned about the sorry state of my nails and the “overgrowth of body hair” to bother inspecting the rest of my body at all, and when I’m placed in the tub filled with a thick foam covering everything from my neck down, I know that I am safe for at least a few hours.  
I zone out for the rest of the prepping. With the normal ambient background noise of idle chatter and gossip, I close my eyes in the tub and go away for a few seconds. I imagine Peeta and I in a meadow, maybe it’s the meadow outside my old house where I lived before all this happened. In the meadow we sit undisturbed, surrounded by tall grass and beautiful flowers. Peeta is making a wreath of dandelions, his blond hair almost white in the sun, his piercing blue eyes concentrated on the intricate work in his hands. He fiddles with the piece for some time, his fingers not quite getting it right, but then, with a joyful smile, he holds the now complete wreath up in front of me. It is truly magnificent to be made of what most people consider a weed, but these are dandelions and their yellow color awakes something in me. A pleasant calmness spreads from the core of my body, making its way to my limbs and spine. I feel myself mimicking the smile on Peeta’s face, so full of love and admiration, and I bow my head down. He doesn’t linger before placing the wreath upon my hair, wiping stray strands of it away from my face in the process. I look up, only seeing his enchanting blue eyes, alive with joy, watching me with what I can only describe as pure, powerful adoration. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers, his worlds almost lost in the breeze of the meadow, but I catch them before they fly away. They are meant for me only and not even our surroundings are allowed access to this moment between us. I lean forward, my black hair blowing calmly in the faint wind. The tip of my nose touches Peeta’s, his skin flushed and yet pale. Time has stopped; the only thing I’m aware of is how his eyes seem to be staring into my deepest thoughts. I wait for his glance to withdraw, expecting fear and sorrow to fill his expression, a result of the things he witnessed inside of my mind, but it doesn’t happen. His eyes are ever unyielding, challenging me to take the last step, to cross the abyss. And I do. My lips meet his and the calmness inside of me transforms into something new- something fierce and untamable. Yet, in spite of the sheer force of the feelings raging inside of me, our kiss is soft and filled to the brim with meaning. I struggle to take it all in at once. The feeling of him so close to me, his lips pressed to mine, is mesmerizing and I never want it to end. I sense his hand caressing my neck and the bottom of my chin, the faint touch igniting fireworks inside of me. I can feel him playing with my hair, careful not to shake or touch the wreath of flowers on my head, just fiddling with the long strands. I want to wrap my arms around his neck, feel the warmth of his body against mine while he kisses me, but I don’t want him to stop what he’s doing now. His hands in my hair and on my neck are enough for now so I just savor the pleasure. The sound of our joining is almost enough to drown out the whisper of wind in the trees around the meadow, the breeze disturbing the rye, rustling the flowers surrounding our bodies. It almost sounds a bit like the fresh melting water running down the mountainsides around the district during spring, or maybe a stream on the forest floor, hidden beneath ferns and roots. As a matter of fact, it sounds more like a waterfall now that I think about it, or maybe a…faucet. At the realization my eyes fly open and I’m thrown back to reality.  
“You should really be getting more rest, Katniss,” Venia’s voice reaches me through a fog of sleep. It takes some time for me to recognize my surroundings, the white ceiling, blinding spotlights and pink fumes everywhere. The sound of the still-running faucet fills my head. Then I remember I’m in our bathtub getting prepped for my first interview since the end of the Games. I really just want to go back to sleep more than anything.  
“Your lack of beauty rest is really not doing any favors for the bags under your eyes!” Flavius adds, not really helping the situation. “But now I think you’ve had enough of the tub,” he concludes, taking a thick towel from a shelf above the sink, folding it out and getting it ready to embrace my soaked body. As I get out of the water I still feel the imprints of Peeta’s hands on me.  
The stuff they put in the bath water must have some sort of rejuvenating properties, because when I get out, my skin is clear, milky and soft as a baby’s. They scrub off what seems like the five first layers of skin, leaving me bright pink, before they lather me in a moisturizer that somehow makes all the “unwanted” hair on my body fall off and disappear. It all seems very chemical, but I’m glad they don’t rip anything off of me like they did before the Games. When I’m all shiny and smoother than I want to be, they deem me ready for make up and hair. Venia plucks my eyebrows, complaining about me letting them get out of hand. Bushy eyebrows have not been on my long list of concerns for the past year, which she is not at all happy about, but it gives her an excuse to go extra crazy with the tweezers. Flavius weaves my hair into an intricate, but casual braid from the top of my head and down my shoulder on one side, which makes me look sophisticated, but not over-the-top. After several long lectures from Effie, I have understood that there is an important difference and a line that shouldn’t be crossed when it comes to casual and formal and a mix between the two. “Katniss, my dear, it is very important that you are aware of the differences!”  
When Venia is done with my brows, she moves on to my nails and I can see she hasn’t particularly looked forward to that part. After a long discussion with Flavius about what to do with the useless stubs that are the remains of my nails after months of almost constant nervousness, she decides that there is nothing left to save. I end up with fake plastic nails with a light pink coat of polish. During the debate about my manicure, Octavia does my make up. A translucent powder, light pink eye shadow and a fresh peach colored lip-gloss make me the picture of innocence. I’m only a sweet sixteen year-old girl with several lives on her consciousness who is now ready to run around in a flower field.  
“There,” Octavia says as she adds the last touches to my face. “Now you look perfect. Cinna will be happy with this.” The thought of Cinna makes my heart jump. I didn’t see him when the team, Effie and several cameramen ran down our entrance hall, so maybe he was just lost in the chaos or simply came in later. The important thing is that he is here now, and I’ll soon see him again. If there is one person I have missed from the Games, it is Cinna. His kind face and soothing voice and the wonderful garments he dressed me in, which might indirectly have saved both Peeta’s and mine’s lives by making me desirable for the Capitol and in turn giving me sponsors. His clothes made me someone to bet on; someone to remember, and I became the girl on fire.  
“Is he here?” I ask.  
“He’ll be right up,” Flavius says. “He simply had something to sort out. Designer business, you know.”  
“He has gotten very popular after the Games!” Venia chimes in. “He has so many clients outside of this that it is surprising he even has the time!”  
To my annoyance I feel a creeping feeling of jealousy come over me. I know it’s unnecessary and stupid and immature, but I can’t help but think of Cinna designing and making clothes for other people, people who just want his services because he was, and still is the stylist of the last winning district. I don’t want Capitol people to use him, maybe exploit him, because of that. For some childish reason I feel an unexplainable entitlement to be the only one Cinna works with, and I detest myself for thinking like that. It’s almost like I’m four years old again, screaming for my parents’ attention right after Prim was born. I shake my head, abandoning the thought. I need to get a grip on myself.  
“I hope he enjoys what he is doing,” I say, trying to hide the small hint of bitterness that most likely resides in my voice. My prep team is too caught up in whatever they are doing to notice, though, and my slight change of tone slips right past them.  
“Oh yes, he is very content,” the cheeriness in Octavia’s voice is evident. Some time passes before Flavius proudly declares that:  
“Our job here is done, Katniss. As always, it was a joy to make you beautiful again.”  
With time I have managed to get over the implication my prep team makes about me looking like a troll before they come to ‘rescue’ my face, because I know that, by their standards, they are right. I mean God forbid anyone saw me without make up, right?  
“Thank you all very much,” I compliment, knowing it is no use in actually being honest with them, as it will probably shatter their egos and ruin the rest of their day. We are all products of our environments and therefore vastly different. They are just doing their jobs and I am doing mine, no need to drag it out. As they leave the room they all plant light kisses on my cheek, as if not to disturb the powder resting on my face. The door closes behind them and I am left alone with my thoughts. A sudden, unexpected silence fills the bathroom and I sigh, looking around on the furniture and decoration searching for something to occupy myself with until Cinna comes. Nothing catches my attention, so I just head over to the stool on which I sat during the prepping. My mind floats back to my nap in the bathtub. I must have come a long way since the Games, being able to fall asleep while my prep team works on me. A year ago I would never have dared to even close my eyes around them, no matter how innocent and naïve they seemed, but now I could even allow myself to dream during sleep. Oh, the dream… I don’t know how I should feel about just that. It seemed so real, so perfect- maybe a little too much. It’s not like me to fantasize or even dream about things like that, but I must admit that it was simply captivating to sit in the meadow with Peeta like we did, him making me a crown of dandelions, calling me beautiful even. I remember his eyes, so full of love, and I can’t help but shiver. No, I can’t let these feelings take control over me like they are doing now. I have no idea what is happening to me. It was just a dream and yet I’m letting these feeling for the boy across the hall fill my mind with pictures of an unachievable life together. The child inside of me exists. That’s one thing. Maybe that little life is what’s making me experience all of these conflicting emotions, tearing me apart, yet somehow fulfilling me at the same time. That life is the product of the feelings Peeta and I share for each other. I don’t know what those feeling are yet, at least not on my part. Maybe he doesn’t know yet either. It might be love, it might be something entirely different- something stronger or something more fragile. All I know is that I need to figure it out sooner or later and come to terms with it. Peeta and I won’t have a perfect life together, we are too damaged for that, and the world is too damaged for that. The child I am bringing to life will have to live in this reality and Peeta and I will have to live with the certainty of our child’s death by the hands of our government. President Snow will be wretchedly delighted by the announcement of this pregnancy and so will the rest of the Capitol. I can only hope that the people around me at home and in the other districts know what the terrible fate of this little life will be and I hope they hate President Snow for it as much as I do. Sickening bitterness and sorrow fills my being, demanding to be felt as much as I don’t want to. I have held these feeling on the inside for too long, not sharing them with anybody in fear of telling them too much, spilling my emotions on the floor for my family to clean up or bothering Peeta with my thoughts. That was a mistake, because now I can’t hold it in anymore. I can feel tears upon my cheeks, rolling slowly down my face; probably leaving cracks in my make up, turning my face red and lungs sore, but I don’t care. I cry for my unborn child, I cry for Peeta. I cry for the life Prim and I never got and I cry for the life my baby can never have. I cry for myself as well, for failing, getting pregnant in the first place and doing this to a child. I cry for Marvel and Glimmer and Cato, the other victims I killed during the Games. I cry for Rue, the little girl with life in her eyes and a smile on her face with a spear through her abdomen. I cry because she was too young, too gentle, and I cry because I couldn’t save her. She didn’t deserve such a violent, unforgiving end to her short life and I know that my child, with all probability, will end up the same. The world we live in is cruel, but it was made so by its inhabitants, the people in control.  
In my despair I have slipped down from the stool, finding a quiet corner between the sink and the bathtub. There I sit, varying between sobbing openly and crying quietly with my head in my hands or between my knees. I don’t know how much time passes between my prep team leaving the room to Cinna opening the door and finding me curled on the floor. It feels like an eternity. My stylist stands in the doorway a couple of seconds, just observing the tragic heap on the tiles that is me before he enters, closing the door carefully behind him. He treads carefully towards me, as if not wanting to disturb me, and then he sinks down, leaning against the side of the tub next to me. He places a comforting hand on my visible shoulder and squeezes me.  
“Katniss, what’s going on?” His voice is soft, barely audible, but it manages to reach me through my misery. However, I am unable to answer as I’m heaving for breath, not able to fill my lungs completely.  
“Can you sit up?” I nod, finding my hands and using them as leverage to get myself off of the floor. I wipe my face, struggling to get the mess that is my hair out of my eyes and gaining some visibility again. Cinna is still sitting by my side, watching me as I recover a grip on my feelings.  
“Better?” he asks. I nod again, but I’m quiet. I can breathe properly now and the embarrassment of letting him see me like this is beginning to reach me.  
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” he asks me again. I’m better equipped to answer this time, but I don’t know if that is the way I should go. He would listen to me, surely, comfort me as well, but there wouldn’t be anything he could do to help me. Not now, not ever. Despite this I could feel an acute need to confide in him, to tell him everything and let him help me. And so I do.  
“I’m pregnant.” There, I said it. Or forced it out through closed teeth. I dropped the bomb that could destroy us all. I can hear him exhale; maybe trying to calm his nerves or hide anger. I just feel a powerful sense of accomplishment. It is daunting and freeing at the same time when I meet Cinna’s eyes. He is watching me closely, seemingly focusing on every detail of my face, analyzing it and moving on to the next one. It takes some time before he opens his mouth to say something.  
“Congratulations, Katniss. I am happy for you if you are happy for yourself.”  
I don’t know how to interpret his cryptic response, but I can sense a serious undertone in his voice. He knows that I wouldn’t do something stupid like get pregnant on purpose, not now, probably not in a million years until President Snow and his regime and the Hunger Games are six feet under and has been so for a while.  
“I don’t know yet,” I admit.  
Cinna must be completely aware of what the consequences of this pregnancy are and how the guilt is eating me alive, because his answer is perfect. “I understand.” He doesn’t enquire anymore, which puts less pressure on me.  
We are both quiet for some time, just taking in what just happened. I’m sure Cinna’s brain is hard at work, but he is good at not revealing anything.  
“I’m not showing yet, so it won’t affect whatever you’re dressing me in today,” I say. My size is probably not what is bothering him, but it feels better to say it now rather than him potentially having to adjust my costume.  
“I’m sure we will be fine either way,” Cinna says. “Are you ready to get dressed? I think you’ll like the outfit.” I struggle to get my legs to work, but with a helping hand from Cinna I’m soon standing again. He walks me over to a big full-body mirror that he must have brought in with him and I see that my suspicions about the crying were correct. My face looks a bit like a balloon, red and swollen and my make up is basically gone. I know my prep team would kill me if they were here now. Luckily it’s only Cinna who was unfortunate enough to walk in on me and now he has to fix my face as well as dress me.  
“I’m really sorry about the make up,” I mumble, looking down at the floor, not wanting to look at my own face.  
“It’s fine,” Cinna smiles. “I’ll redo it later.” In the mirror I see him opening a long clothing bag, the white kind with a zipper, revealing a light blue dress with frills and lace. It’s not an outfit for winter, and not for particularly warm weather either, but it’s beautiful like every other creation Cinna has made for me. He takes it out of the bag and brings it over to me so I can feel the fabric. It’s light and airy, but has sturdiness to it as well. I like it. I let my robe slip off my body and as it hits the floor, Cinna drapes the dress over my head. When the straps are fitted to my shoulders, the garment is reaching me to just above my knees. He reaches for the zipper in the back and tries to closes it, but as it reaches my middle, the zipper refuses to budge.  
“The girl on fire not showing, huh?” Cinna teases before using force on it, getting it to barely close across my back. I get a sudden desperate desire to run away. I can feel heat going towards my face and in the mirror I see blush spreading across my cheeks. Why am I so affected by this? It was going to happen sooner or later, why not now?  
“I haven’t noticed anything at all, I’m really sorry,” I start, trying to make the dress fit better around my waist. It is very snug, a little too much so. I feel my breath catch in my throat as I struggle with the fabric. I want to flee the room, find sanctuary in a closet somewhere. I really don’t want to be here, standing in front of a huge mirror, looking at my expanding body.  
“Katniss, stop apologizing,” I feel Cinna’s hand on my back, calmly patting me, trying to bring me comfort. “How far along are you?”  
“Nine to ten weeks, I think, but I’m not sure.” That’s true. I really need to speak with my mother about all of this, maybe get some vitamins or whatever other pregnant women do to keep their child healthy and safe. I know to little about this. I am in no way ready to be either pregnant or a mother.  
“This happens, Katniss. You’ll be fine.” Cinna’s voice is soothing, but he is not helping much. “It’s just an indication that everything is as it should be.”  
I guess he is right, but the development scares me nonetheless. Although I can’t see any change it was easier to block out this pregnancy yesterday, when it all seemed like an event belonging in the distant future.  
“I guess so,” I mutter. Cinna turns around and digs through a suitcase, retrieving a black knitted cardigan, which he proceeds to wrap around my shoulders. He gives me a reassuring smile and gets some make up brushes to fix my face. Then he goes to work. 

He spends maybe fifteen minutes on my face and then I’m as good as new. During those minutes I spend the time fascinated by the look on his face while he works; a mixture of concentration and something I would describe as elegance if it were about his body. His hands and fingers move like a ballet dancer, moving across my face with quick movements and before I know it I’m ready to descend down the stairs to face the cameras. He helps me up, straightens out my dress and cardigan and gets me to put on my ordinary hunting boots. “I think the audience will love seeing a little bit of the true Katniss,” is his explanation. I have no other choice but to trust his judgment and I follow through with his request. Cinna follows me to the door, but doesn’t go down with me. “I need to clean up here first, but I’ll be down soon enough,” he says. “Good luck Katniss. Remember that I’ll always be betting on you.” The last part he adds with a smile as I close the door behind me.  
I’m in a trance as I walk down the stairs, enveloped in nerves, barely able to keep myself standing. When I come down Effie scolds me for being a couple of minutes late. This almost sends me over the edge again and I can only just hold my tears back. I think Peeta notices this, because he asks Effie to back off in the most polite manner he can. Peeta is dressed in an outfit of matching colors to mine, but he looks ten times better. Black pants with a light blue sweater over a white shirt make him look like an innocent schoolboy again, the one I used to notice in the hallways of our school in the time before the Games, surrounded by his friends. The sweater he is wearing matches his eyes, which are now studying me. To my astonishment I see that they hold the exact same expression they held in my dream about us and I feel a strange urge to run into the woods, but now take him with me.  
“Please take your seats now!” a cameraman says to us, gesturing towards a sofa with a white sheet draped over it. Cameras surround it at every angle possible and right in front of it there is a screen currently showing the seal of the Capitol. I guess that is where Caesar Flickerman, the TV host, will be appearing shortly to interview us. I would like to see him travel all the way from the Capitol, through every district of Panem before arriving at the outskirts of tiny District 12, just to interview us in person. That might have made it a little more bearable to be interviewed by him, knowing that he actually made an effort to be there. But alas, that would never happen.  
We are guided towards the sofa and seated next to each other. The people around us spend the next minutes instructing us on how to sit. I end up in the crook of Peeta’s left arm, legs crossed in front of me, but leaning towards him. Peeta is asked to sit with his legs a bit apart, open and looking comfortable. He pulls this off with a golden star, but I know that his exterior does not match what is going on inside his head. I’m glad they allow me to sit in such a closed position, as I feel a lot safer this way. The sensation of Peeta’s body against my own grounds me, preventing nervousness from overflowing or my mind floating away in other thoughts. I hope the feeling of my presence does the same for Peeta as his does for me. Around us the room falls silent after a long time of buzzing and the cameras are switched on. I can’t see Haymitch anywhere, but that might be better than him being here and sending me dreary looks during the interview. In less than half an hour all this will be over and I can go to lock myself in a cupboard or something. Whatever I need to recover from this, I’ll need it. The screen in front of us is still just showing the seal of the Capitol, but Effie’s voice is loud and clear all around us. I take a deep breath and brace myself for the inevitable.  
“Cameras and lighting ready! Live in 3…2…1…!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the long wait for this one. I'll try to update more regularly, I promise!

“And there we have them, last year’s victors of the Hunger Games! The Star-Crossed Lovers all the way from District 12!” Caesar Flickerman’s voice fills the room, overly happy and enthusiastic. The screen in front of us lights up, showing our host standing on an illuminated stage in what I presume is an outside arena or square of some sorts. Behind him is a huge crowd; thousands of people going crazy at the sight of us, wigs, underwear and an assortment of flora flying about the stage, but for some reason not hitting Caesar himself. He is wearing a three-piece suite with a shock pink overcoat covering a shirt laden with tiny shimmering crystals. The strobe lighting reflecting off of the gems and his overly bleached smile are almost enough to blind me even through the screen. His hair matches the overcoat, and so do his shoes, but his trousers are white as snow. I try my best to glue a smile on my resisting face and hold Peeta’s hand in a death-grip to keep by breathing calm. We wait for the crowd to calm down enough to let Caesar speak. Our host is doing the same thing, making big gestures in the air signaling to the audience that it is time to shut up.  
“My dear residents of Panem!” Caesar hushes. “I know we have all been waiting for this the entire day, and now we finally have our favorite couple here. It is time to ask our questions!”

This makes the crowd somewhat silent. I can almost see their eyes and ears turning towards Caesar and what I presume are the huge screens behind him on which Peeta and I are transmitted. Caesar turns to face us and clears his throat. He gives us his most jovial smile before he asks us the first of many questions to come this evening.  
“We are all in ecstasy to see you, long time no see! How have our lovers been doing this past year after the Victory Tour?”  
Before I can even register the question Peeta is already answering it. “Thank you Caesar, and thank all of you for letting us be here tonight.” The last part is directed to the crowd of people behind Flickerman and they scream and applaud in response. Peeta gives them one of his winning smiles, the sort that just melts your heart right out of your body. To my displeasure I feel a twinge of jealousy knowing that those smiles are not only reserved for me. At least the smiles Peeta gives me are real and not forcibly glued upon his lips. I find a little comfort in that thought, so I tuck it between my heartstrings for later keeping. It is very unlike me to be so sentimental and sensitive and weak and I really shouldn’t be reacting like this. Peeta is not my property, not my plaything. He is the father of my child and he is playing the Capitol’s game. President Snow’s game. He doesn’t have a choice and neither do I. I don’t want to use baby hormones as a sorry excuse, but I feel my thoughts drifting that way and I bitterly hate myself for it. 

Outside of my head Peeta is telling Caesar, the viewers and the live audience about what we’ve been doing since the Games and the tour ended. He doesn’t mention the sleepless nights. Not the nightmares or flashbacks or the terrifying paintings that cover his room and have begun to spread further throughout his house. Not Haymitch’s bleary eyes and empty bottles or my sudden outbursts of rage or other times bottomless sadness. He only includes the pleasant parts, like the time I walked my little sister Prim to school right after I returned to the District and all the students in the yard gathered in a circle around us and started clapping. That is the version Peeta tells Panem through their TV screens. If only the viewers knew that the students hadn’t clapped or applauded. They had gathered in a circle, yes, but instead of cheering there had been silence. With their heads bowed they had all done the three-finger salute. They had not congratulated me. They had grieved alongside me. That Peeta chooses to tell this story in particular surprises me. I don’t understand why he would take such a risk, but it must have a purpose, an end goal. He always has an end goal. Peeta alters the story for obvious reasons; if Snow knew the truth he would not be happy. An act of rebellion as tiny as a bunch of school children raising their arms in a far-away district is still an act of rebellion and the President would have every single one of the participants executed or imprisoned one way or another. Age doesn’t matter to Snow. Loyalty and obedience do.

The audience and Caesar’s response to Peeta’s storytelling is impeccable. They laugh at his jokes, some shed tears when he tells them about a broken paintbrush and loud gasps fill the air when something mildly scandalous happens, like the time Buttercup brought a half dead rodent inside and left it on my pillow. I don’t know how I feel about Peeta sharing so much of our private life with these people, but it’s what they want. And what they want is what Peeta and I have to give them, however small and insignificant the stories may seem.  
Every interview is supposed to last an hour. From midday to midnight the Pre-Games Special airs uninterrupted with interviews of the previous victors and soon-to-be mentors from every district. As usual, District 1 is the first one out and the rest of the districts will have to wait for their respective hours. The people of Panem have been waiting 11 hours for the star-crossed lovers’ first public appearance since the victory tour, which was many months ago- too long for the liking of the Capitol, and therefore this occasion is extra special to them. They all look forward to this year’s Hunger Games and our first year of mentoring, and Caesar suddenly makes it perfectly clear to anyone watching that the Games are what this interview is actually about underneath the happy banter and applause, by asking a question that makes my stomach do an uncomfortable twist.  
“Do you think you can repeat last year’s endeavors in the Games to come?”  
What does he mean by that? Do we think Twelve might win again- that our tribute might make it out alive? Or that we can manage to get them both out like Haymitch did with Peeta and I? If it’s the latter, then we are walking on thin ice. Did Snow make him ask this as some sort of warning?  
Next to me, Peeta tightens his hold of me, his fingers almost digging into my upper arm. I don’t mind- the slightly uncomfortable sensation makes my thinking clearer. He must have noticed the grave undertone to Caesar’s question as well, because he starts his answer off with a little chuckle, giving him a couple more seconds of thought before he has to open his mouth to give a proper reply.  
“Well Caesar, last year’s Games were indeed a little out of the ordinary,” the thin ice underneath us begins to crack. Peeta treads carefully, slowly. “And both Katniss and I are fully aware that what happened last year will, with all probability, never happen again.”  
Caesar nods as he hears this.  
“That being said,” Peeta continues, “Our district’s chance in the Games all depends on the tributes reaped, and if we are very lucky, we might have a decent likelihood of winning.”  
I nod in agreement. “As mentors, we will do everything in our power to help our tributes stay alive as long as possible. I think that is what most of the mentors see as their primary goal.” This is the first complete sentence that exits my mouth since the interview started.

I let my breath out. Peeta’s golden words save us yet again. I can’t help but marvel at his gift of articulation-the way he can enthrall an entire nation with the words he speak. It looks like Caesar is happy with our response.  
“Well, I can’t wait to see you two as mentors in a Quarter Quell, nonetheless! It will be so much fun to see what the game makers have in store for our tributes this year, don’t you agree?”  
The question is directed at the audience around him and they all cheer wildly in response. It sickens me. Luckily, I can sense that it is almost time to wrap up the interview. I can’t wait for it to be over, but before I can know the sweet release of freedom, Caesar turns around to ask his last question.  
“Now, my dear friends, before we let you go, I think we have all been wondering this: What does the future hold for our star-crossed lovers? Are you two perhaps thinking about marriage? Maybe even an extended family in the near future?”  
Peeta goes stiff as a board next to me and I can hear him letting out a shaky breath. It feels like my body and my mind stop working at the same time. That Caesar can even think of asking two sixteen-year-olds that sort of question makes me nauseous. It truly shows how twisted the Capitol is and what they actually expect of us. That realisation is like ice-cold water running down my neck and I finally understand that this whole interview has been testing us. This entire thing, the questions- they have all been aiding Snow in getting us to misplace our feet on the thin ice, to misstep and go through- to say too much. And we nearly did, but now that I see it all, it’s as if I glue my mouth shut. I refuse to say anything else that might break the ice I’m walking upon, and on my part that means shutting my mouth entirely. Unfortunately this realisation seems to have the opposite effect on Peeta, who has now gone limp at my side. I feel him grab my hand and squeeze it, a gesture I don’t immediately understand, but when he opens his mouth and utters the words that completely shatter the fragile ice under us both, I understand that is was an apology.  
“You see, Caesar, this all happened a little earlier than planned, but Katniss is already pregnant.”

He did it. He dropped the bomb that could destroy us all. And now we are drowning.  
Caesar almost faints with shock. I’m not sure if it’s an act or if he actually is genuinely surprised, but the message is clear enough. He did not expect this. And neither did I. The day we found out, I made Peeta promise not to tell anyone without my full consent, preferably not tell anyone at all, but now he has shared our secret with the whole of Panem, with the Capitol, and with Snow, which means our unborn child is already in danger. The thought initially filled me with uncompromised terror, but now it makes me seethe with rage as well. I feel furious. I feel undermined and most of all I feel betrayed. I don’t understand what he tries to achieve with this, but the audience’s reaction shows what effect this new information has on them. Some actually faint; I can see heads disappearing in the crowds as bodies hit the ground. Others scream or cheer loudly, whilst others just stand there, too shocked to do or say anything. It’s complete chaos.

I quickly glance over at Peeta, who is trying to conceal a smirk. He planned this. He doesn’t look back at me although I know he is aware that I’m staring. I feel the urge to grab his collar and shake him- demand to know why he broke his promise, but I know it’ll have to wait until after the interview is over. By then the anger will have escaped me and pure disappointment will have taken its place, but it will have to be enough to get my point across. On the screen in front of us, Caesar is getting his bearings back and being informed that the time for the interview is running out.  
“I think it’s safe to say that we are all so very happy for you!” He beams towards us and the audience behind him claps and screams to enhance his words. Peeta and I smile and nod and say “Thank you” too many times until finally Caesar Flickerman decides to end the Pre-Games Special with a bow and his characteristic laughter. “So long, everybody and thanks for watching! I will be seeing you all for the 75th Hunger Games in only a few months!” He proceeds to bow a couple of times more, receive flowers from two children in the audience, and then wishes us all good night. The anthem plays, shaking me to the bones with sound, and the screen goes black in front of us. The lights of the cameras around us die and we are returned back to reality, back to the cloth-covered sofa Peeta and I are sitting on in a living room in the Victor’s village.

It’s like the world and the people around me are underwater. I can see some of their mouths moving, others are making gestures, waving their arms around and looking aggravated. I don’t know why. All I can hear is the muffled sound of their speaking until one voice reaches through the haze and hits me, snapping me out of the trance.  
“So it’s true, then?” It asks. It sounds sullen and cold, “You really are pregnant?”  
The voice belongs to Haymitch. By his tone I know that he means business and I can do nothing more than nod in confirmation at his question. I can hear him breath behind me. Heavy inhales followed by loud exhales through his nose.  
“I can’t believe it…” I hear him mumble, more to himself than to anyone else. He repeats that phrase a couple of more times, walking blindly around the room with everyone’s eyes following him. His hands fist and open several times when he is not rubbing the hair out of his scalp in violent motions, trying to control his boiling emotions. Everyone else in the room is frozen. It’s like waiting for a bomb to go off- and then it does.  
“YOU ARE BOTH IDIOTS!” he roars, striding for the door. He struggles with the lock, but manages to get it open in his rage. He storms outside and slams it shut behind him. Plasterwork drizzles from the ceiling as the walls vibrate with the force of his outrage. Our living room is yet again left in silence as we hear him curse to himself and kick several heavy objects out of the way towards his home. He enters his house as he left ours: with a bark of anger and the heavy sound of a door being forcefully closed. The camera team looks confused at each other before they shrug and begin to pack down their equipment and cables as if nothing happened. I’m to dazed by Haymitch’ raving outburst to even move, so I just turn my head to Peeta, whose wide eyes meet mine and those blue gems tell me that he is thinking exactly the same thing as me: What have we done?

“Well, that was certainly… intriguing,” Effie attempts to lighten the mood in the room, but nobody pays her any heed. They are all packing their stuff or looking at me, astonishment in their gaze. I feel the need to pull a Haymitch and flee my immediate surroundings, but the weight of Peeta’s hand on mine keeps me grounded. Haymitch display had temporarily banished Peeta and everything else from my mind, but his hand makes me remember what he just did. I feel my anger tear through me again and I shake his hand off to get myself out of the sofa and to a fitting distance from him to scream his ears off. I am standing maybe a meter in front of him and from the look on his face I know that he is aware of what’s coming. I get ready to scream, to trash and to rage around the house, but all that comes out of my mouth is a pathetic squeak.  
“How could you?” My voice breaks. I try to find the strength I need to get my fury across, but I feel so deflated that my knees buckle under my own weight. Then tears escape me and my plan of looking fiery and in control slips through my hands as I lower myself to the floor.  
“Katniss, it was the best thing to do. It would have been revealed during the Quell anyways, so why not just get I over with?” Peeta whispers. He didn’t anticipate this sort of reaction from me; I can hear it in his voice.  
“You were supposed to ask, Peeta,” I moan, no longer able to control my tear ducts. I’ve cried too much today already and it’s especially humiliating to lose it in front of all these strangers, but I just can’t help myself. The strong victor from a year ago is reduced to a weeping mess on the floor of her living room. Peeta tries to say something, an apology probably, but I refuse to listen. I pathetically cover my ears like a child and just stay there on the floor until I feel two nimble arms wrap around me and hoist me up. I open my eyes and see my mother, whom I didn’t know was so strong, leading me away from the room and the curious and worried looks of the people there. Peeta is left in the sofa, but I see that Effie comes to sit down next to him and begins to talk. I can’t see her face or hear what they are saying, but Peeta just looks lost.

My mother leads me up the stairs towards my old room and sits me down on my bed. She helps me change to nightwear and washes off my makeup before she re-braids my hair into the long tail down my back. She helps me into bed and tucks me in as if I were eight years old again. During the whole ordeal she hasn’t uttered a single word. No questions, no statements. I start to cry again when she stands to leave the room, and to my surprise she actually comes back to me.  
“Scoot,” she whispers as she lifts the covers to climb into bed with me. She settles in behind me, her form roughly the same size as mine, but it doesn’t bother me. She holds me as I empty myself of tears that have been held in for too long, and she pats my head and wipes hair away from my wet face. I feel exhausted, but doubt I’ll be able to fall asleep after today’s events. I am proven wrong, though, as my mother’s presence, the sound of her even breathing and the way she strokes my hair lull me into a dreamless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about the long wait, it seems life caught up with me. I have more time to write now, though, so I hope to be a bit more productive. Thanks for sticking with the story!

I wake before the sun is up the next morning. The first thing I notice is that I am alone. My bed, with its tangled sheets and messy pillows, holds only me now. Not that I would expect my mother to stay with me through the whole night, but her absence makes me feel as lonely as ever. My breakdown yesterday must have scared people, perhaps even her. After a year in the spotlight of the Capitol I am so used to suppressing my emotions and thoughts that my pathetic reaction yesterday was probably the last thing Peeta and anyone else expected. 

The night has morphed my devastation into anger. My head is clear after the hours of uncharacteristically peaceful sleep and I can collect my thoughts again. The one that hits me the clearest is that it serves them right, this anger of mine. Peeta revealed my most dire secret and now there is no going back. My anger burns bright at the thought of it.

I try not to think about what happened the previous night, afraid I might start throwing what few decorative items I have around my room, but I can’t stop my thoughts wandering down that treacherous path. I can hear Peeta’s voice as if it he is sitting on the bed, inches from me.   
“You see, Caesar, this all happened a little earlier than planned, but Katniss is already pregnant.”  
The faces of my team and the crew around me after the screen went black. The array of emotions on display: disbelief, shock, surprise. And the stunned silence before Haymitch completely lost it and went haywire. 

I shake my head, desperately searching for a distraction. My mind refuses to cooperate. I know I cannot stay in this house much longer. As always when I’m upset I get the crushing urge to flee my immediate surroundings, and now, compared to yesterday in the crowded living room, there are no one around to stop me.   
I ease my stiff limbs out of bed and into the bathroom across the hall as quietly as possible. A sore spot on my lower back is bothering me, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I know the reason and accepting it would just make the whole thing more real. This is a pain that will not relent under warm hands or herbal concoctions. 

I fumble for the switch on the wall in the bathroom and try to brace myself for the blinding light. I squint as my eyes readjust to the artificial brightness of the Capitol lightbulbs, but I soon regain my vision. I proceed to consider myself in the mirror. I can’t say the sight delights me, quite frankly I look like a mess. If my prep-team just happened to barge in on me now, they would wish they hadn’t. 

My eyes are still red and puffy from yesterday’s events; tears have made trails in the makeup my mother didn’t get to as she washed my face. The braid she redid before she put me to bed has been so disheveled by my tossing and turning that there are more loose strands than braid at this point. Apparently, even in dreamless sleep I move about in bed as if someone were chasing me.

I do the best with what I have. I wash my face again; the cool water clearing away both residue makeup and thought. I brush my teeth, but the taste of toothpaste makes me so nauseous that I think I might throw up. I don’t, though, and after sitting with my head between my knees for a while I feel remarkably better. The nausea retreats as quickly as it came. 

When I’ve got my bearings back and look fairly presentable, meaning I look a bit less than a wreck, I exit the bathroom and make my way back to my room. I’m not going to bed, though. Instead I open my dresser. Underneath layer upon layer of Capitol clothing my old garments are hidden from view. I pull out a big woolen sweater – something my mother knitted for my father with the wool we sometimes brought home from the Hob after a good day of trading big game – and pull it over my head. Its sleeves are so long only the tips of my fingers reach out and the oversized turtleneck folds around me. I love it. 

I try on a pair of old pants as well, but I can’t for the life of me close the button in the waistband, so I give up with a frustrated sigh and put on one of the many pairs Cinna provided me with. The button closes only by my sheer determination. 

With extra socks on and my game bag in one hand, I make my way as quietly as possible down the hallway and to the stairs. Safely down on the first floor I take a turn for the kitchen where I open a few drawers at random and stuff food items in my bag. A loaf of bread here, a piece of cheese here. It still puzzles me how easy of an access I have to food now as a victor. I plan on hunting more when arrive at my destination, but I have gotten so used to breakfast by now that I need something to eat before I can do anything else. 

The house is eerily quiet compared to just hours earlier, when dozens of people forced their way in here for the interviews. There are no visible signs of the commotion left anywhere. Now my home just feels unlived in and distant. It hits me just how lonely the night can make even the homeliest homes feel and I make a mental note to try not to wander around the house at night. It won’t do any good for my thoughts. Back in the entrance hall, with my game bag filled with a sizable portion of food, I pull on my hunting boots and my father’s old leather jacket. Despite my constant eating and access to food, I haven’t put on a noticeable amount of weight. I might have become a bit curvier, but the jacket still fits more than comfortably, even with the huge woolen sweater I have on. I wrap a scarf around my head for extra protection from the winter cold. This early in the morning in the middle of February it is bound to be freezing outside.

It turns out I’m right about the temperature. The wind is biting cold and turns my nose and cheeks bright red as it pulls on my clothing. I just pull the scarf more tightly around me, silently thanking myself for bringing it, and make my way towards the one place where I can be completely alone: the woods. 

The world around me is still in limbo when I reach the fence. In a state between the silent night and the break of dawn. The wildlife is preparing for the first rays of the sun rising in the east, and as I nimbly make my way through the rip in the fence and into the woods I hear the first birds begin to sing. It is beautiful, this awakening of the world. The woods come alive with sounds and movement, as animals – hunters and prey alike – emerge from hiding and greet the first daylight. Behind me night still lies quietly upon District 12, an exception no doubt being Haymitch, who doesn’t like sleeping while the world is dark. He might be going to bed at this moment. 

The thought of Haymitch brings back a flood of memories from yesterday and with them come the countless emotions that make me feel like I’m going to rip at the seams. I quicken my pace in an attempt to focus on something else, and it works. I have to watch my steps in the snow, be careful not to trip over any roots hidden by the white powder or slip and fall when the ground becomes icy. At this pace, I quickly reach the tree where my father has hidden his stash of a few bows and quivers of arrows, and with my familiar weapon retrieved from the trunk I instantly fell just a little bit calmer. 

Still, all my thoughts are trying to break through the barriers I have set up around them in a weak attempt to protect myself from their wrath. To try to escape them I know I should head deep into the woods, perhaps farther than the lake where my father and I used to swim and fish while he was still alive. That, though, is out of the question. The freezing temperatures and the unpredictable nature of the weather make the dangers of venturing that far into the woods weigh more than the possible gains from the trip. Instead I decide to make my way towards the place where Gale and I used to meet before I landed myself in this situation. 

It isn’t far, and it is as if my emotions have understood that they will soon be let out and are now fighting the harder to escape. After about an hour I reach the bottom of the hill on which our outcrop of stone is located and I can feel the first tears making their way down my face. I won’t be surprised if they freeze before I get to the top. I haven’t shot anything on my way here and I’m glad I have bag filled with food I can consume while I cry myself dry. Oh, how low, I, a victor of The Hunger Games have sunk.

I climb up the steep hill and prop myself between the stones where Gale and I used to sit, now weeping openly. I don’t eat though, I just cry. The strain of the last couple of days have apparently resulted in a seemingly endless supply of tears and I just sit here, on this seat of stone too wide for just me, and empty myself.

I miss Gale. And it sounds pathetic. I usually feel so at home in the woods, alone or with company, but this trip without him has me feeling more isolated than ever. My location isn’t helping either. If Gale were here now I would have felt his warm body next to me, filling the empty space on the seat. We would have been warming our hands on a newly made fire, probably roasting a squirrel or a bird, enjoying the quiet winter morning. But no, Gale isn’t here. He should be deep underground by now, in the mines, digging away at some coal vein. 

I don’t know if I truly want him to be here at the moment though, despite me feeling miserable without him. He has undoubtedly watched the interview with Peeta and me from yesterday, as has the rest of Pane. It was mandatory viewing.   
And just like that it hits me like a punch in the guts. Everybody knows that I’m pregnant. Everybody knows about the baby. Of course, I knew this the moment the words fell from Peeta’s lips, but they haven’t really registered until now. And good thing I’m alone too, because this is when I start to scream. I stuff a piece of my scarf in my mouth before it gets too bad, but the sounds I make must scare the game within a mile’s radius away. I don’t care. I’m not really here to hunt anyways and I have plenty of food at home. Besides, I’m not sure I could hold an arrow straight at the moment. 

My throat is raw when I finally stop. Then I just sit there, watching the sun ascend in the sky.   
I remove my scarf and wet my mouth with some snow. It melts quickly on my tongue, bringing cold relief with it. I feel a bit lighter though, the screaming seems to have brought some empty tranquility with it and instead of pent-up emotions I feel only hunger now.   
As I slowly build a small meal from my game bag, I mind automatically begins to stray to places I really don’t want it to stray. The future for example. There are many possibilities, but my mind automatically forms the worst-case scenario to be the most plausible one. I have been over this same kind of thought several times, but it takes a different shape each time it appears. This time President Snow is the one to pick our child’s name out of the reaping bowl. They don’t even have a name, and yet he has it on the paper slip in his hand. And just like that our child is lost. 

However, in what has become the late morning light, surrounded by my woods, eating bread and cheese and drinking freshly melted snow, empty of screams and tears and anger, I see another future. One which hasn’t even been thought of before. In it Peeta is happy. He is rocking a small, blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms. Tiny, wrinkly hands emerge from it to touch his face, which is so close, and Peeta is smiling and cooing, obviously joyful beyond what any of us thought possible, and I know it’s because of this child – our child, our baby. It is the baby that I’m carrying inside of me in this moment. That is not a fantasy. That is an undeniable, completely terrifying fact.

But I have to come to terms with it now. Avoidance can only get me so far. I touch my hand tentatively to my stomach for the first time since I found out I was pregnant. If there is a bump, it is undiscernible through my thick clothing, but the life is there, hidden away safely inside of me. No one can hurt Peeta’s child while I still live.

With this new revelation, I begin my trek home. I have to apologize to Peeta. What he did yesterday still seems unimaginably thoughtless to me, but I’m sure he had his reasons, just like he always has with games he plays with the Capitol. Still though, taking Haymitch’s reaction into consideration - this was a decision made by Peeta alone. During the Games, he and Haymitch worked on Peeta’s strategy together and pulled it off wonderfully, but now that Peeta is working on his own I just hope he knows what he is doing. These are dangerous games to play.


	6. Chapter 6

When I get inside the fence again and trudge across the meadow, which is covered in snow reaching me to the middle of my calf, I am met with a busy District 12. Well, as busy as we can be. Mine workers are hurrying to and fro, already covered in today’s thick layer of black dust, some carrying iron beams or buckets or drills. Other inhabitants of the District are just trying to stay out of their way. It’s a school day so there aren’t many children around and most of the population has to work, but there are a few people who have time to spare a glance at the window displays in the shops, while others are carrying bags of brought goods. It is good to see that at least some of the people of the district are living on something other than stale bread and Greasy Sae’s Stew.

I’m about to enter the Hob, this time without any game to trade, but with my pockets full of money, until I remember that my secret is now not so secret anymore and I will definitely be gawked at if I enter now before the dust has settled. I also have a suspicion that my face still bears visible signs of crying and I don’t want to give them more of a show. I don’t want to come across as weak either.  
That is another thing I have to decide: what angle will I play this at? Will I be proud or regretful? Perhaps over the moon with baby bliss, or aloof and indifferent about the whole thing? Haymitch would probably be proud if he knew about my calculating thoughts, but when I think about it I can’t help but feel a burning guilt. The Games are one thing: There, scheming and strategies are more often than not what decides if you live or die, but have I let the Capitol influence my thoughts enough to think like this even when it comes down to my own child?  
In my thinking, I have come to a standstill in the middle of the Square. I don’t have game and I don’t have anything else that decomposes to be rid of, so I don’t see a point in submitting myself to the judgement of the Hob without it being necessary. For once I have the privilege to give myself some more time to figure out how to play this. If I’m going to play this. I turn around and walk towards the Victors’ Village instead. I have to find Peeta.

When I enter the iron-wrought gates to the Victor’s Village, the first thing that catches my eye is a small, anonymous car standing in front of the house I share with my mother and Prim. Its shiny black finish is a stark contrast to the brightness of the snow surrounding it and the general dullness of the grey brick wall houses of the village. In what has to be pure spite Buttercup is sitting on its hood. My heart leaps in my chest and settles in an uncomfortable crook in my stomach where it hammers away. What is this?

I walk slowly and collected towards my house, trying to contain my wild gasps of air in slow, poised breaths. This can only be bad. No one but a Capitol official would come to visit in a car in District 12. It seems they’ve come for me at last. As I walk past Haymitch’s house I see that his curtains are drawn shut. He might just be sleeping, but when I see that Peeta’s curtains are closed as well, that becomes less plausible. This visit is meant only for me.

My mother is there when I push open the front door, a bright smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes.  
“Did you have a nice walk?” I know she knows I’ve been in the woods, but I play along. Anything to keep up this fragile façade of peace and compliance.  
“It is freezing, but the air is good,” I reply, returning the smile. “I didn’t buy anything though, so you’ll have to send me out again if there is anything you want from the store.”

“That’s alright, Katniss.” She takes my jacket and puts it on its hanger on the wall. “We have guests,” she says and I can see it in her eyes that she is scared. She doesn’t know what this is either. Then I notice the man standing behind my mother further down the hall, silently observing us. A sleek black suit and corresponding shoes, complete with an earpiece undoubtedly connected to a device in his jacket by a curling cord down his back. I’m sure whoever is on the other side of that thing hears every word we exchange.  
“I figured as much from the car outside,” I smile. Then I direct my attention to the silent man. “Do they want to see me?” I have a sneaking suspicion of who my visitor might be.  
He nods and gestures with his hand for me to follow him. Is he an Avox? I give my mother a reassuring smile as I do as he bids me, but I don’t know which one of us needs reassuring the most now. If my guest is who I think it is, the last person on earth I want to see, then I definitely need it more.

He leads me down the hall to our office and I get the sudden feeling that I’m the unwelcome guest here. He stops outside the door. “Go right in,” he says. Well, at least he’s got his tongue. I take one last look at him, with his blank face and polished shoes, and then I enter the office.

My suspicions are confirmed when the smell hits me. A strange mix of blood and roses that would have made me sick even if I wasn’t pregnant. President Snow sits at the desk where Prim usually does her homework, and regards me with cool eyes. It makes it run cold down my spine. The consequences of Peeta’s choice yesterday are already making themselves apparent.

“Good morning, Miss Everdeen,” he says. It is odd to see him surrounded by such ordinary scenery. This is a man most commonly viewed in front of great pillars and flags and among people of great power, but here, in a tiny office in a moderate house in District 12, he still manages to convey how deadly he is. “Sit down please.” He gestures to the chair across from him, on the other side of the desk, and I do as he says. He sounds pleasant enough, but there is an edge to his voice that makes it clear I don’t have much choice.

“Now,” he exhales, straightening the buttons on the cuff of one of his sleeves. “I suppose you know why we’re here, Miss Everdeen?” He isn’t looking at me, he is still looking at his sleeve, rather nonchalantly.  
Still, I know exactly why we are here, but I refuse to take his bait. I don’t want to initiate him in this, even though, of course, he already knows.  
“I have a theory, yes,” I say. At this his eyes flash at once from his cuff to my face and there they stay, boring into me with undisguised intensity. I meet his gaze as steadily as I can manage, but I know I’m trapped. His snake-like eyes measure me.

He is a man of small build who holds such an exceptional amount of power alone in his own hands. This power he has used to abuse and kill and starve his own people for decades, and now he is here to personally harass me. It’s quite the honor, really, to be so annoying that even The President himself takes time off his schedule to try to put me in my place. I would have felt proud of myself if I didn’t have so much to lose.

His unnaturally full lips part in an unpleasant smile.  
“Then I presume congratulations are in order, Miss Everdeen - though I must admit this was highly unexpected.”  
Of course it was. Snow would have demanded for Peeta and me to have children eventually, to complete the “star-crossed lover” angle we played to save our skins in the Games. This whole thing turned into an obsession in the Capitol and we are now the single most beloved couple in the entire country. Though not everyone was sure our romance was genuine, and I must admit, for a while I was actually only pretending to love Peeta. But not anymore. I’m still not sure about my feelings for the boy with the bread, but it is so much more now, and certainly not a game any longer. It is as real as it can be.

Most likely this was the las thing President Snow expected to happen. I know that he had his doubts about my feelings towards Peeta in the Games; Haymitch told me as much before the final interview in the Capitol on the last day of the victory tour. That was on the same evening we boarded the train back home and the same evening I got pregnant. How ironic. On several different occasions I have now managed to either meddle in Snow’s presidential affairs and authority or to prove him wrong: I am one of two victors of the same Hunger Games. That in itself shouldn’t be possible. I have also fallen in love with the person Snow thought I was feigning romance for. At least that is what I think this is – love. What I feel for Peeta is still strange and new and raw, but it is there and I know that it is resilient.  
And now I am expecting his child. I am providing Snow with the baby he would eventually demand sooner or later, and I am providing it very much sooner than he envisioned. And now he is here to tell me about it. As if that is necessary.

“What I am here for, Miss Everdeen, is to inform you that we are planning your and Mr. Mellark’s wedding in the Capitol.”  
A chill runs down my spine and it has nothing to do with the cold winds outside. The cold is coming from Snow as he tells me this. When I saved Prim’s life by volunteering I gave my own to Snow. Unknowingly then, but it has become clearer and clearer. When I was crowned victor, I gave up my privacy and my possibility of a normal life. No, that is not right: Snow took them from me. And now he is trying to force on me what I made myself a promise to never do. I never wanted to get married, nor did I want to have children. Those two promises are gone with the wind now because I am apparently unable to think long-term.

Snow is studying me. I know that he is looking for a reaction, a confirmation of his victory, but I refuse to give him one. Instead, by sheer force, I will my face to smile. After all the times in front of a camera I think I have become rather good at it. No matter how much this news got me off guard I have come close to mastering the skill of keeping my head cool.  
“The wedding is to be held as a commencement to the 75th Hunger Games in May,” he continues. “There will be a week of celebrations and festivities before the marriage takes place, which will be on the day before the new tributes arrive in the Capitol.“  
As he tells me this Snow leans closer across the desk. I am pretty sure the expression he gives me when he is finished is supposed to be the mockery of pleasant politeness, but his full lips and cold eyes make the smile that splays across his face look more like a sneer.

As he talks my own expression goes through a series of several different emotions that best fit what he is saying while he is saying it: Surprise, awe, joyous disbelief. I hope it looks genuine, that it is enough.  
“That’s wonderful news!” I exclaim. I channel the giddy girl from the victory party with some difficulty, but when I find her she stays and fights. It is impossible to say whether or not Snow expected this reaction from me. The President is anything but stupid, so he might already know that I could be lying to him.  
“We like to keep a little to the traditions in the Capitol,” he says. “Call us old-fashioned, but one can’t have a baby without a marriage, or what, Miss Everdeen?”  
I laugh. “You know, Peeta and I have actually been talking about getting married. With the baby and all we have both been thinking that it is in its place,“ I meet his gaze head on. “I am so glad you agree.”  
He catches my eyes without hesitation. “And I am glad to hear it.”

While we are speaking together in a more jovial manner than usual between us, we are staring each other down like two wild animals over newly killed prey. Who will get to take the first bite? Then one thing hits me.  
“What about the reaping?” I ask. There is no way Snow would let me miss my first reaping as a mentor.  
“Don’t worry, Miss Everdeen. There has already been made arranged for a reaping to be pre-recorded on the day of your departure. The rest of the country won’t notice a difference and both you and you fellow victors will get to preform your duties as mentors.” In other words, we still have to be there and look out into the crowd and wonder which of the children we won’t be able to save this year. I still have to get up on that stage in front of the District and be just as helpless as last year. Only now I am part of the system. The thought does nothing to brighten my mood. The two tributes picked this year will also because of me be forced to live normally for the duration of the week of out "grand wedding party" after the Reaping before they can get on the train to the Capitol. I can only imagine the agonizing nerves they will be very familiar with even before they step foot in the training center. An extra week of torture, but if they are allowed privacy and time, also potentially a week of invaluable training.

“How far along are you?” Snow asks all of a sudden. The question takes me by surprise. Why does he want to know that? I certainly don’t want to tell him.  
“Around four or five months I think,” Despite myself I answer, struggling to not sound reluctant. He smiles.  
“When you arrive in the Capitol I will see that you get a proper medical examination, but I’ve heard that your mother is skilled doctor so I’m sure you are in good hands until then, Miss Everdeen.”  
The thought of yet again being prodded and pinched by Capitol doctors makes me shiver. I have had enough of white coats and gloves for a lifetime after my stay in the hospital after the Games, but I can do nothing but express my supposed gratefulness in a smile.  
Unexpectedly the man with the suit, who has been standing outside the door all this time and whom I have promptly forgotten about, comes inside. Snow rises from his chair.  
“Well, I must take my leave, Miss Everdeen,” he says as the man in the suit hands him an elegant coat of black fabric. “It was my pleasure to see you again,” he gives me one of his cold smiles. I am sure he would rather be anywhere else but in our study, but his lie requires I stand up and see him out the door.  
“Do give Peeta my regards when you see him,” President Snow says before he passes me. “I must say I was surprised to not find him here, but no matter – it was you that I came to speak with. Goodbye, Miss Everdeen.” Then he turns, and with the man in the suit following him, he disappears down the hallway. I can see him exchange some words with my mother before she courteously opens the door for them.

I don’t watch as their silhouettes fade in the snowy weather outside. The door closes behind them and a moment later I hear a vehicle starting up and driving away. The sound diminishes until it is entirely gone. The sickly smell of roses lingers.


End file.
